


Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies...Masquerade!

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [9]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Genderbending, Homophobic Language, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Major Character Injury, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 5: A masked ball. Joy turned dark as the villain re-enters the tale. Erik bursts onto the scene to claim the opera and Christine both. And then, Raoul finds herself alone with a ghost.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies...Masquerade!

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a note, I've tagged for it, but there are homophobic actions here on Erik's part in this scene, and I just wanted to warn for it clearly.
> 
> Also, this chapter DOES contain an homage to the 2004 movie (a scene that was an homage to the book, meta!) which I know, not the best adaptation, but it had some things to like! You'll know what it is when you get there.

There’s a crowd, when Raoul and Christine reach the opera house.

It’s all Raoul can do not to reach for Christine’s hand when they step out of the carriage, only grasping it lightly to help Christine down before letting go. They walk side by side through the chattering throng of costumed people, whispers following behind them. Not because of anything they suspect—at least not from the sound of it—but because Raoul’s name is what it is, and because she’s an oddity, all around. Philippe, promised to a group of friends at another New Year’s party this evening, won’t be in attendance, and Raoul suddenly feels…more vulnerable than she expected because of it.

Still, she won’t let that ruin the bubble of pure, absolute joy in her chest.

Christine said _yes_.

Except, Christine halts when they reach the foot of the stairs leading toward the door, stopping short. Raoul puts a hand on her shoulder, lowering her voice so they aren’t overheard.

“Are you all right?”

“I…” Christine sucks in a breath. “I don’t…” She reaches for the necklace, which seems to steady her shaking hand.

“We don’t have to go,” Raoul says. “We can turn around if you don’t want to go.”

Christine’s eyes widen, and Raoul thinks of one late night in the little flat, when Christine told her about the first time she heard the ghost’s voice, and the weeks that ensued. The ghost’s promises. The ghost implying he was sent by her father. How she felt safe, or at least safer, and how it felt when all of that was ripped away. The man’s face might have made her jump, but that didn’t scare her, not really. It was the way he grabbed her. The way he shouted. The way he wasn’t who he said he was. Christine cried for the ghost and his loneliness. She blamed herself for falling under his spell. Raoul held her until she fell asleep, swearing that none of it was her fault, that it never could be. There was a look in Christine’s eyes, then, and Raoul sees it now. That panicked gleam.

Christine turns to face Raoul, biting her lip, an apology just in the way she holds herself. “Where do I say I got this necklace? They’ll know.”

_He’ll know_.

_He’s gone_ , Raoul wants to say, because part of her thinks he is—it’s been half a year, after all—but she doesn’t _know_ , and she won’t lie to Christine. A little sting of pain twinges in her chest, but that isn’t fair, because they can’t tell anyone about their engagement. They can’t have a proper wedding in front of a crowd. Christine has a right to ask the question. It’s not unheard of for a friend to give another friend such an extravagant piece of jewelry, Raoul supposes, but with the way people talk about her already, they might suspect what the necklace means.

“They won’t know,” Raoul protests, a touch sharper than she means to be, because she didn’t want anything to ruin this night.

“Raoul,” Christine pleads, and it’s that, more than anything, that makes Raoul put that little sting in her chest away. “I’m not like you. If people talk too much about me, I could lose any chance I have in this opera house.”

“I’m sorry,” Raoul answers. “I know. I…” She’s used to people talking about her. Christine isn’t it. Despite the happiness of the past few months, this discovery is still new for Christine. Raoul’s known for such a long time, that she forgets what that’s like. And sometimes, admittedly, she puts the dangers aside more easily than she ought to. “We’ll say Juliette gave it to you in thanks for giving my nieces some singing lessons, does that sound all right?”

Christine nods, reaching for Raoul’s hand and then remembering she can’t. “I’m sorry, I…”

Raoul shakes her head. “No, don’t be. Let’s go, shall we?”

Christine smiles again, real and genuine, and they walk with loosely linked arms into the grand hall of the opera house, where they’re met with an explosive burst of light and color. Costumes in every possible bright shade. Purple. Blue. Green. Orange. Little flashes of red. Masks in gold and black and white and silver. Music. Champagne bottles popping, golden liquid poured into tall, elegant glasses.

“Christine! Raoul!” a familiar voice calls out, rushing over to them.

Meg Giry cuts her way elegantly through the crowd, mask still on, but that blonde hair and the sheer enthusiasm in her voice gives her away.

“Meg!” Christine says cheerily, sounding a little more herself as she lets go of Raoul and takes both of Meg’s hands, squeezing them in greeting. “You look perfect.”

Meg twirls around with a laugh, dressed in black tights, boots with a touch of gold on them, and a long purple jacket with a black waistcoat, a top hat completing the ensemble.

“You two ought to put your masks on, you know!” Meg exclaims. She eyes the necklace and grins big, though she doesn’t do them the disservice of asking questions, here.

“Oh, quite right!” Raoul says, putting her own on, and noting that Christine looks a little hesitant before doing the same, gazing out with unease at the sea of masks.

“You two look lovely as well,” Meg says, gesturing them along with her through the crowd. “The flowers on your jacket match Christine’s dress, Raoul, well done.”

They make their way toward a less crowded spot—Meg seems to sense Christine’s anxiety—and Raoul sweeps three glasses of champagne off a nearby table.

“To the new year,” she says, raising her own in the air before clinking it against Christine and Meg’s glasses respectively. “May it be full of good things for us all.”

They stand for a while, the room sparkling and glittering with at least a quarter of the Parisian elite, drawn toward the opera house for its spectacle and its glitz, and maybe just a little bit for the ghost stories.

In turn, people keep looking at Christine. They look at Raoul. People come up to them one after the other after the other. Christine smiles and plays her artist’s role, more than one wealthy man lingering a little too long with questions. Raoul talks, pulling out humorous anecdotes to tell. Meg chatters. The managers and Madame Giry find them soon enough, and Carlotta’s entrance at least makes some of the crowd go over to her, instead. But Christine is a rising star in her own right, now, and everyone wants a piece of her, tonight. Everyone wants a piece of Raoul too, because she’s a de Chagny, and she wishes, again, for Philippe’s presence.

She takes another glass of champagne.

The room feels a little too bright, a little _too_ loud, as the night goes on, and she wishes she could sweep Christine out on the dance floor and kiss her in view of everyone like the other couples are doing, but she can’t, and it hurts more, tonight, than it usually does.

“The new chandelier is gorgeous!” Andre exclaims when they’ve been there an hour or so. “You spared no expense, Madmoiselle de Chagny.”

Raoul raises her glass in Andre’s direction. “Never, monsieur. Only the best for this opera house.”

“No word from the ghost!” Firmin crows, and that does make Christine start, a little. “Hopefully he’s gone, the wretch, and not taking 20,000 franks out of my pocket every month. What peace we’ve gained, recently.”

“Quite,” Christine says, her voice a little tight. “It’s a lovely party, messieurs.”

Madame Giry interrupts them, because it’s time for some of the performers to do a number for the all the guests, Christine included. Though she’s been placed in more singing roles, lately, they need dancers for this, and she’s certainly trained. Christine squeezes Raoul’s hand briefly, fleetingly, and Raoul doesn’t want to let go.

There’s nothing wrong, she tells herself. Nothing wrong at all.

Christine gives a little jump when a man in a mask jumps in her way, and Meg puts an arm around her waist. Raoul takes a few steps closer to the stairs as the piece starts, all of the ballet corps and some of the other performers perfectly in step, singing words in tune.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade, masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…_

Raoul smiles as she watches Christine, those silver boots sparkling under the light. Christine starts smiling when she gets lost in the steps and the music, and maybe everything is all right, maybe…

Suddenly, one of the dancers goes out of step.

Then another.

And another.

A high, sharp gasp shoots through the air, and at first, Raoul doesn’t understand why.

She looks up, and there at the top of the stairs, is a person dressed entirely in deep, dripping, bloody red, and wearing a death’s head. Raoul immediately thinks of the story by the American writer Edgar Allen Poe.

The Masque of the Red Death.

The music dies off note by note by dissonant note until the entire hall goes silent. Raoul wants it to be a joke, but she knows it isn’t.

It’s him.

Raoul’s blood pounds and pounds and pounds in her veins and she has to think, she has to be clear-headed. She searches for Christine in the crowd and walks up swiftly to where she is on the stairs, shoes echoing in the silence. She walks in time with the phantom, whose steps cut into the quiet in an ominous way that sends chills racing up Raoul’s spine. She goes quickly, but the opera ghost takes his time, holding everyone’s attention.

They stop at the exact same time.

Raoul’s just reached Christine’s side when the ghost starts speaking, and though she can’t see his face under the mask, she hears the smirk overlaying his words.

“Lost for words, I see?” the man called Erik says, every tiny movement making someone in the room jump out of their skin. “Did you think I was gone for good? Did you miss me?”

He laughs, and Raoul wants to retch, she wants to tell him to get _out_ , but she keeps her mouth shut and takes Christine’s fingertips very loosely in her own, even though she wants to hold on tight.

Erik pauses, and Raoul thinks he purposely isn’t looking at Christine, making her wait, making her wonder. Punishing her for daring to defy him.

“I’ve written you an opera,” the ghost says, pulling out a leather bound manuscript from beneath his red costume and tossing it to Andre, who, to his credit, catches it. “It’s called Don Juan Triumphant. I would…advise you to do as I say and put it on.” He pauses again, everyone hanging on to his every word. “If you don’t, I think you’ll find there are rather worse things that a shattered chandelier. Though I see you’ve…” his eyes run over Raoul for just a fraction of a moment, and Christine grasps Raoul’s fingers tighter. “Fixed that.”

Erik spins sharply on his heel toward Andre and Firmin, the former still clutching the manuscript. “You had best learn that your place is an office, gentleman. You are not artists, I’m afraid.” He spins the other direction toward Carlotta, who looks defiant, but there’s fear in her eyes, too. “And you, signora, ought to learn to act.”

Piangi puts his arm around Carlotta, who sputters but stays largely silent. A strange thing, really, and Raoul really, truly feels sorry for her, right now.

Raoul’s heart plummets, and she steadies herself as the ghost turns his gaze on Christine. He walks slowly, deliberately, toward them, and Christine’s eyes look almost…blank as she takes two steps forward herself, keeping hold of Raoul’s hand.

Raoul follows. She has to.

“As for our star, Miss Christine Daae…” Erik’s eyes linger on Christine and it makes Raoul shudder, but she doesn’t know how to stop this, she doesn’t know what to do, she can only hold Christine’s hand and swear she won’t let this man take her away. “I’m certain she’ll do her best, of course, but if you all didn’t already know, I was her teacher, before she betrayed me, and I suspect she might do well to return to me.”

Christine breathes hard, her chest moving up and down and up and down.

“Leave her alone.” Raoul speaks before she means to, and her voice echoes through the crushingly silent room.

The ghost’s gaze snaps over to her, and she hears that smirk again without being able to see it. It’s not just the ghost looking at her, though. It’s everyone.

For the first time, Raoul looks the opera ghost in the eye.

“Ah, Madmoiselle de Chagny,” the ghost says in that enticing, entrancing, dangerous voice. “I rather think that you might have something to share with all these delightful guests. Particularly the members of this opera house. Don’t you? People ought to know more about their patron.”

Bile crawls up Raoul’s throat, hot and acidic and awful.

No.

Oh no.

No.

“I’m sure some of you might have noticed Miss Daae’s close relationship with the opera’s new patron.” Erik’s words echo into the room, landing hard like rocks on Raoul’s chest. He leans forward, closer and closer and closer, his words like poison. Like he thinks he’s won. “Well, I can tell you that I saw what they were…sharing, on the rooftop, the night of Il Muto.”

The room plunges into an even deeper silence, somehow, until a murmur breaks through the crowd. The implication hangs in the air.

An implication that Erik wants, an implication that isn’t true. Well, it’s not _untrue_ , they have…but it wasn’t that night, they just kissed then, and that was their moment, their love, their promises, and he saw them, didn’t he? Raoul knew it, before, but she didn’t know how much he saw, how much this ghost, this demon invaded their privacy. Something about him listening in on those sacred, snowy vows is worse than any kiss he might have witnessed. Worse than that disgusting note he left.

He was there the whole time, wasn’t he?

She should have known from the note that he was, she should have…none of this is any of this man’s business, but he wants people to think the worst things they already think about people like Raoul, he wants them to think that Christine is a loose woman and Raoul is a deviant who coerced her on a cold rooftop. But they’re just in love, and it’s private and precious and they courted like anyone else and…

There’s not time for more thought, because the ghost reaches forward, wrapping his hand around the necklace Raoul just gave Christine, the necklace that said _forever_ , and yanks it off, the chain snapping in half.

Raoul’s never been this angry in her entire life.

Her hand slips from Christine’s as the ghost retreats, no easy feat, in that ensemble.

She runs up the stairs after him, hearing a sharp _Raoul no_ , but she can’t stop. The opera ghost throws something on the floor as Raoul reaches him. There’s smoke. Someone grabbing the collar of Raoul’s brand new jacket and ripping it. It might be Andre, she thinks it’s his voice telling her to stop.

A hole opens up in the floor.

She slips. Screams follow her down. Shouts. Chaos.

Then, she’s falling.

She hits hard ground after a short distance, emitting an undignified _oof_ as she does so. Her side aches and her shoulder hurts and there are…mirrors? All around her. Before she can think or react there’s a swath of bright red cloth coming into her line of sight. She gets up, immediately, before the hand reaching out can grab her collar.

Her hair falls out, the long strands tumbling down her back and into her face before she’s face to face—and alone—with the Phantom of the Opera.

God, her _blood_ is on fire.

The ghost laughs and removes that garish death’s head, revealing a face with yet another white mask resting beneath.

“You are rash, aren’t you? Brave, for a woman. I’ll give you that.”

Raoul tosses her hair out of her face, trying not to be obvious about searching for an exit.

“No need to search for an exit, mademoiselle. You’ll leave this room when I say so. You made your choice to follow me down here. I’m afraid that’s where your choices end.”

“Not going to kill me like you did Joseph Buquet?”

A stupid thing to say, she realizes, right after saying it.

Her shoulder throbs from the fall, and she takes a fleeting moment to study this mystery of a man who’s haunted Christine’s dreams for months. Who’s haunted her own, if she’s honest, even if she’s never really seen him until now. Only felt his presence on her heels, his breath on her neck in box 5. She’ll never forget the sound of that chandelier crashing onto the stage, that note falling from the rafters. That body, hanging. She touches her cheek where the tiny piece of glass cut through her skin, a miniscule little mark left behind.

“I don’t like to put my hands to a woman,” the ghost says. Amused. Condescending, like she doesn’t think Raoul any sort of threat.

Raoul keeps her tone a little more even when she speaks again, because she thinks it would be unwise to believe that. The ghost’s rage is the measure by which that sort of thing gets decided. Perhaps he didn’t harm Christine permanently in a physical way, but he had no trouble shoving her or grabbing her wrist enough to leave a bruise behind. And that’s someone he claims to care about.

“What do you want?”

Erik circles Raoul, his footsteps echoing into the quiet. Even his steps are threatening, a hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes. This man could hurt her. Might very well hurt her, no matter what he says.

Fear pricks at Raoul’s skin. Admitting the fear clears her head, if only a little.

“I want you to give up this play fantasy with Christine. You can’t love her the way I do, nor understand her. You’ve led her down this path. She doesn’t know any better.”

The ghost’s voice is deep. Dangerous. Silky smooth, like he might be hypnotizing her, or trying to.

She’s trapped in a tight trick of a space with an honest to goodness murderer.

Raoul clenches her fists at her sides, and she can’t believe that just a few hours ago she was the happiest she’s ever been in her life. This man has broken this night, this night that was meant to be a turning point, a night full of joy, and now he wants to stab Raoul with the jagged pieces left behind.

“Are you saying that because you think I don’t understand her love for music, or because I’m a woman?”

The ghost leans forward, hatred and condescension on his breath. “Both.”

“You may think you can just force Christine into anything,” Raoul says through gritted teeth, and she needs to calm down, she knows she needs to calm down, but the world is breaking and cracking around her and she wants to go back, she wants to go back to a few hours ago. Yesterday. A month ago. “And that everyone else acts the same way as you do, but it isn’t true. I didn’t force Christine into this. She has a mind of her own. A wonderful mind, at that. If she told me _no_ , I would honor her wishes, even if broke my heart. You don’t love her. Not one bit. You wouldn’t treat her this way if you did.”

The ghost lunges for Raoul’s collar, and Raoul lets him, because she doesn’t want to get backed up against the wall. Her jacket rips again as Erik tugs on it, the fabric held tight between his fingers. Raoul spies one of the mirrors to her left, a mirror that looks slightly shinier than the other.

“I do love her,” Erik seethes, and a shiver runs down Raoul’s spine. “Far more than you are capable of, you silly, foolish, girl. You don’t understand her. Go back to your life and your money and your shallow desires. Whatever relationship you think you have isn’t _real_.”

The next words spill out of Raoul’s mouth before she can stop them, before she can think.

“If that were true, and if you loved her, then you wouldn’t have exposed us to the entire opera house.” Raoul sucks in a breath. “I know you don’t care about me. But you hurt her, too. Her prospects in this place.”

The Phantom leans closer, an inch away from Raoul’s face. “I did it to remind Christine that she belongs to me, and to show you that you can’t have what you want, nor should you. Even if you were a man you would be in the way of something that was already mine. Her prospects in this place will be fine, as long as the managers do as I bid. And they will.”

Unchecked heat flood Raoul’s cheeks, her face getting hotter and hotter and hotter.

“I’ve known Christine since we were children,” she says, spitting the words. “But that isn’t the point. You don’t get to lay claim to her like this. No one does because she gets to make her own choices. You hurt her. Lied to her. I love her.”

The words _I love her_ almost seem too vulnerable to admit to this man, but they’re truer than anything Raoul’s ever felt. Maybe they’ll make a crack in this man’s cruelty. Maybe they’ll make him see that Raoul isn’t doing this to hurt him, personally.

She just fell in love.

The ghost’s eyes narrow, and there’s a long, aching pause before he speaks words that are sharp as knives. Meant to hurt. Meant to wound. Meant to make Raoul back down in shame.

“You are a deviant.”

That heat in Raoul’s face bleeds out. Her breath catches. She wants to hurt this man back, for all the hurting he’s done. For the way he’s unraveling her life, Christine’s life, and she says something utterly, entirely rash.

“No. But you are a monster.”

The ghost lets go, and for a moment Raoul thinks she’s made some kind of progress. Then there’s a hand flying through the air, a ring glinting in the darkness, and Erik backhands her straight across the face.

There’s pain. A little dribble of blood, but Raoul keeps upright.

So much for not laying his hand to a woman.

Raoul doesn’t have time to second guess.

She kicks the shinier mirror she noticed before, and it shatters easily. There’s a gasp, somewhere. The ghost’s shout of rage, and a door comes open beyond the broken fake glass, someone pulling Raoul out of the small room and dragging her down the hallway.

Madame Giry.

“Don’t ask questions we have to go,” Madame Giry says as soon as Raoul opens her mouth.

Raoul obeys, but only until they’re around the corner. She doesn’t ask how Madame Giry knew where that trap door was, she only asks the question that most matters to her.

“Madame Giry what is your game? Please, tell me. Do you know this man?”

Madame Giry releases her, spinning around. “I don’t know anything, but I do know there have been too many accidents. We need to get you to Christine, she’s in her dressing room worried sick. What were you thinking, following him?”

Raoul stops dead in the hallway, and her face stings and she’s on the verge of tears but she has to know. She has to figure this out.

“Madame Giry. Please.” Raoul doesn’t enjoy pleading or begging but she must, now. To protect herself, but most of all, to protect Christine. “For all of us, I need to understand who I’m dealing with. Who is haunting this place. Who just struck me in the face.”

She will pick up the broken pieces of this night and she will find a way for them to make it through this.

Madame Giry stops, and Raoul doesn’t really have it in her to wonder if the ballet mistress is judging her or if it’s just concern, though she does sound softer than before.

“There was a travelling fair in the city, once,” Madame Giry finally says. “Magicians, that sort of thing. And in that fair was a young man, locked in a cage. They boasted he once built for the shah of Persia, a famous maze of mirrors. But he was disfigured. From birth, it seemed. You can imagine how he was treated in such a place.”

Raoul nods, and tiny corner of her heart feels sorry for the ghost. Erik. The Phantom. No one should be treated like that, but it also doesn’t give him an excuse to treat others like this. To murder. To threaten. To abuse Christine. But there must be something in him. Something that drew him toward Christine and her sweetness in the first place, some small piece of his humanity left. Part of it is, no doubt, because Christine was young and grieving, and he could take advantage of that.

But there was something in his eyes. Those angry, hateful eyes. Some tiny sliver of something real. Raoul knows what it is to be different. To be unlike the majority of people, and to be taunted for it.

Still, she’s not sure she can summon sympathy. Not after what he’s done.

There was something about his voice, too. Raoul heard it, down there. She can imagine what it might be like, set to song. How when it sounded kinder, it might have lulled Christine into a sense of safety. Beauty, music, weaponized into something cruel.

“I can,” Raoul says. “What happened?”

“He escaped. He was thought dead, but he wasn’t, as we all know. He…he’s a genius, mademoiselle. There’s no doubt.”

There’s a little more sympathy for Erik in Madame Giry’s voice than Raoul can bear, but she’s helping, she’s answering, so those thoughts go unsaid.

“I rather think that genius has turned to…something else.” Raoul wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, coming away with a streak of blood. “But thank you. For telling me. I…I would like to see Christine, please.”

Raoul doesn’t ask questions about the reactions of anyone in the opera house to what happened at the masquerade, because she doesn’t want to hear anything from anyone but Christine, or perhaps Meg, though she doesn’t see the latter anywhere as they walk through the hallways. People scatter at the sight of Madame Giry, and there’s no doubt all the wealthier guests are gone, but the performers are still here, and they whisper whisper whisper as Raoul goes past. Raoul can’t tell if it’s judgement or just curiosity—perhaps both—but either way, she feels exposed. Naked.

All she wanted was to make Christine safe.

“The managers want to speak to you both,” Madame Giry says once they reach Christine’s dressing room door. She pauses, realizing Raoul’s thoughts. “About the opera. The phantom’s opera. Not about…well I don’t know. But they said it was about that.”

Raoul nods, swallowing hard, before stepping inside.

Christine’s there, immediately.

“Raoul, oh my god!” she exclaims, already up from her chair, her eyes puffy from crying. “Raoul, you’re bleeding, what happened? You fell and I thought…”

“I’m all right,” Raoul protests, even though she certainly is _not_ , and she did swear she would never tell Christine a lie.

Christine huffs. “Sit down.”

“Christine…”

“I said _sit down_ , Raoul de Chagny.”

Raoul’s never heard _that_ tone from Christine before, so she does as asked—ordered?—and Christine retrieves a handkerchief from her vanity. Christine pulls up a second chair, but she hesitates before dabbing away the streak of blood on Raoul’s cheek.

“This is not how I wanted this night to go,” Raoul says, and her voice sounds husky, she realizes, husky like she might cry and she doesn’t _want_ to cry. “I’m so sorry, Christine.”

“Raoul,” Christine replies, gently, so _so_ gently. “What happened?”

“I talked to the opera ghost. When I fell down there, chasing after him. There were…mirrors, I suppose it was a trap door? I kicked one out and Madame Giry found me.”

Christine almost smiles when Raoul talks about kicking out the mirror, but her voice trembles when she speaks. “Did he…he hit you, didn’t he? I didn’t think he would…”

Raoul stares ahead of her, and she can’t quite look at Christine, because she feels like she’s failed, she feels like everything was perfect until perfect broke into a million tiny pieces at her feet.

“He said he didn’t like to put his hands to a woman. I suppose he changed his mind.”

“Raoul…” Christine takes Raoul’s hand tightly in her own, leaning her forehead against Raoul’s own. “What did he say?”

“That I was to give up this play fantasy with you.” Raoul breathes in deep, and she tries and tries and tries not to cry, but the tears come out, anyway. “That I was a deviant. That I couldn’t love you properly. That he exposed us to show you that you’re his.”

Raoul puts her face in the hand Christine isn’t holding. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined everything for you, Christine. Your place here. I didn’t…” Raoul’s heart breaks when she speaks the next words, she feels it cracking as it beats against her chest. “If you don’t want this, _me_ , anymore, I’ll listen. But I will do anything I can to help you, no matter what. He’s dangerous, Christine. Please tell me you won’t trust him again, whatever he says.”

“Raoul…” Christine tugs at Raoul’s hand, making her look up. “I don’t trust people who strike my fianceé. Whatever sympathy or affection I might have for them in my heart.”

There’s new confidence in Christine’s words. Fragile, but there, nevertheless. The word _fiancée_ makes Raoul’s heart go pitter-patter in her chest. It makes her feel like they can make it through it, this darkness, even as they seem poised to walk further into the deep. A little sob crawls up her throat, and she lets it come, even if she swore she would always be Christine’s hero.

Maybe heroes cry sometimes, too.

“I’m sorry,” Raoul says. “I…”

“Shh.” Christine puts a kiss on Raoul’s hair. “You’ve certainly let me cry on your shoulder more than once. Let me do the same for you.”

“I wanted to keep you safe,” Raoul whispers. “I swear I will, Christine.”

“Raoul…” Christine repeats her name with love, tipping Raoul’s chin up. “I…please don’t dash after him like that again. I worried you might be dead. I need you alive.”

Raoul wants to argue, but she hasn’t the energy. Her breathing evens out and she smiles a little. Christine wipes the blood away from her face, and Raoul tells her everything, including Madame Giry’s tale. She slips her arm around Christine’s shoulders, her cheek, throbbing.

They need to go speak to Andre and Firmin.

They need to come up with a plan.

But for a moment, just this precious, fragile moment, they sit together in this dressing room that started it all. The dressing room where a more innocent version of herself walked in, and fell absolutely, irrevocably in love with her childhood sweetheart.

Whatever darkness comes, she swears she will hold onto the magic of that moment.

And never let it shatter.

**Author's Note:**

> A reworked Notes II will follow this! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
